through my myopic eyes darkly

though the glare of the city was sufficient to light our walk, the rocks underfoot remained blurry. as i stooped and squinted, it seemed to me that this was kinda the point: fumbling in the dark, trying to find something that will be beautiful when brought into the light.

eleven minutes with antonio

my ipod can usually figure out what i need to hear. i hit shuffle and it takes over. this morning we had to work together... neither of us knew what fit. finally, the second movement of vivaldi's spring (largo) accompanied the lyrics playing out around and inside me as i sat in queen's park. 11:33 of beauty.

the green paint of the picnic table peels away to let me read the carved initials. there's a spray-painted stenciled prayer: "love and wisdom to you." i echo the request and take my seat. joggers and busses and traffic and a man sitting on a bench 50 meters away, rocking. the dark tree trunks speak of a depth and richness i long for. so real, so concrete. their limbs spread overhead, a symphony of green. peaking through, a sky that glows with blue and white. so good. so very, very good.

vivaldi didn't include wind rushing through drying leaves in his orchestration, to say nothing of the rumble of the subway underfoot. i'm not sure he'd object, though. do the vibrations of the subway affect the trees here, i wonder? every three minutes or so, the roots dance, for better or for worse. are they stronger for it? or do they long for stability and stillness?

strange how a piece about spring fits so well with fall... especially on a university campus. fresh starts: new friends, new lessons, potential that just makes you ache. i think about how i love the smell of autumn, but realize it's the smell of decay. "but," i reflect, "it's death that paves the way for new life." maybe Christian spirituality is about choosing that death over the other kind - the kind that sticks.

do i use the word "beauty" too often? should i guard it so it becomes more sacred, more meaningful? thing is, i don't want to fail to recognize that which *is* truly beautiful... what if God is in the ordinary and life is beautiful and i love being soaked by rain and having the wind play with my skirt and imagining that i am not alone, after all? what if "sacred" doesn't mean "rare"?

i think about what i'm thinking about. how i'd write it. are we really who we are when we write? why am i not like this when i order my london fog or shop for shoes or run for the bus?

sigh.

i let my hair fall on my shoulders and watch and listen and rumble with the subway. i wrestle with impatience. i wonder if there will be a time in my life when this is a priority: when sitting and being (except without thinking so much about it) will come naturally and frequently. when i'll have someone to sit beside. but no talking. just being.

i've only ever shared a moment like that with one person. under a full, smokey moon, we stood, humbled and silent. maybe sharing wonder is the height of intimacy. not talking about it later, like i do here, but living it, together.

first wonder

i've been trying to narrow down the seven wonders of my world, but i have thirty-four so far, and i am not one to censor (or censure) wonderings. instead of reeming them off, i'm going to share one a week, in detail.

wonder one: when i was just shy of fifteen, i received a swift kick to the lower leg during an intense soccer game. while i was no athlete, i decided i was all gritty and hardcore and chose to play out the rest of the game. not only did i have the wickedest bruise in amateur sports – about the size of my fist, and deep purple and green – but because ice wasn’t administered immediately, it didn’t go away for a long time. more than ten years later, i still have a bundle of scar tissue just above my right ankle. it is almost numb except for a slight tingle when i touch it. every time i take notice of it, i’m reminded that i once took a soccer game very seriously. i’m also convicted about my habit of ignoring what my body needs.

i have other scars: more than a dozen burns, scratches, stitches, and scrapes, the circumstances of which i can’t always remember. knowing that scars are quite common has done nothing to change how i feel about them: they absolutely fascinate me. when i see other people’s scars, i'm always tempted to ask how they were acquired. (i try to fight that impulse because it’s led to a few awkward moments – sometimes the stories have been forgotten, and sometimes we just wish we could forget them.)

scars are the marks life leaves on us. our very skin becomes a living scrapbook, and we can read our stories right off our own bodies. there are inner scars, too… they have colour and texture, but are invisible to the naked eye. that underlying ache is always there, waiting to be rediscovered at the oddest of times. there are some people who seem to instinctively know where the tenderness and vulnerability is; they just find those spots and jump up and down on them. just like with tangible scars, we can’t always remember how we got the hurt to begin with. all we know is, it’s hurting again, only different. like the echo of a hurt.

i don’t understand healing – why it is that God pronounces it over my life; why it is that the process seems to be stalled at “pathetically incomplete;” what its status says about God; whether there’s hope of getting anywhere at all; why i only ever notice my own healing in hindsight and from a distance. but i am starting to see that scars have a purpose in my life: they remind me that i am still fragile and urge me to be gentle with myself. attentive, even.

they are a mirror, reflecting back to me the pain that i refused to deal with at the time.

close your eyes and i'll kiss you ‘cause
with the birds i’ll share
with the birds i’ll share
this lonely view
~red hot chili peppers, "scar tissue"

before i come undone

"what do you want for your birthday?" well, we're going to chapters in a minute so i can come up with a reasonable answer. 'cause there's nothing anyone can say if i tell the truth: i long for fresh adventure! (hard to gift-wrap, i know!)

i concluded a long time ago that it's infinitely harder to write eloquently about joy than about sorrow, so it's no surprise that i'm struggling now. it's just that life is so full. brimming with hope and paradox: a garden in my room, a book in my ears, a song in my eyes.

when i used to play badminton there would be times when my whole right arm would get impatient. it would looooong to smash the birdie, but the set-up would be wrong time after time. the feeling moved up my arm into my whole body until i was just buzzing to smack the birdie over the net with every bit of energy i had. it wasn't out of frustration or anger or sadness; it wasn't cathartic or competitive. it was restlessness.

it's not that i'm bored, you know. and it's not because i just finished reading the narnia series.

maybe we're just made to long for adventure. to buzz like that with everything we've got. until the right set-up arrives?

amended @ 11:18 to add: go here. thanks!

i long . . .

to be scared and yet to fight.
to learn to drive, to thrive, to strive.
to really write.
to be generous - invite, not bite.
to walk with my mom, sing with my sister, talk with my dad.
to collect sunsets, swingsets, butterfly nets, sunrises, surprises.
to ditch the disguises.
to read for pleasure and for pain, to play in the rain.
to chase horizons and kids and breezes.
to laugh with the twilight when it teases.
to pray and dance and swim . . . and all with Him.
to look out, and in, and everywhere.
to stay in touch, but not so much that i stop missing.
to be alone, to be silent, to be whole.
to set a goal.
to fail, to wail, to go slower than the slowest snail and so
to see what i had always hurried by before . . . but no more?
to rewind, unbind, and there find healing.
to know and trust - and not just nod - that nothing is impossible with God.

despite appearances. . .

oh, skoch. you and i both know that you're a lifelong member of the "not attracted to mara" club. now that you and josh have designed your t-shirts, any claims to the contrary could result in being disfellowshipped by said club. careful!

in that spirit, i was thinking today that there are several good reasons why skoch and i could never and should never date:
10) skoch and socks? he's a goat and i'm a fashionable accessory. we're practically from two different worlds! ;)
9) the age difference is troublesome. i prefer guys who are at least six years younger or ten years older.
8) he's prettier than me.
7) i'm not sure i embody the "spirit of randomness" . . .
6) we're far too comfortable with each other. dating should be all about awkward silences and misunderstandings.
5) too many people think we're engaged. i don't like giving in to the general consensus.
4) i'm not sure if he's pre-trib or post-trib, and that's a deal-breaker.
3) he has dated a close friend of mine. to me, that makes him off-bounds.
2) i really do try not to date guys who aren't attracted to me.
1) most importantly, if i were dating skoch, whose shoulder would i cry on when we ran into problems?

reasons why we should date (i could only think of three)
3) when two worlds come together - like birds of different feathers - there's joy in the air, and what a pair we'd make together.
2) he's got the sentimentality thing down to an art.
1) dating each other and then breaking up would guarantee that we both get married in the next 2 years!